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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24335920">A game of defiance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog'>Snoozydog</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arguing, Disobeying Orders, Face Slapping, I suck at tagging alright, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Other kinds of slapping as well, Power Play, Sherlock is a Brat, Stubborn Mycroft, battle of wills</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:48:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24335920</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No one can nurture a grudge quite like a Holmes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A game of defiance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had all began when Mycroft had brought Sherlock the case of the Bruce Partington missile plans that had gone missing. </p><p>The way his little brother had handled that case, at first dismissing it altogether, refusing to even help out but instead sending John to do the leg work, then offering the missing memory stick to a new-found enemy, without a second thought to how such a thing might affect Mycroft and his work, it had raised his hackles instinctively when he had found out about it afterwards. </p><p>That whole bombing case that had run side by side along with the Bruce Partington case had been quite worrisome to begin with as Mycroft had become aware of later on, when given the final report. It had naturally not improved his mood any further.</p><p>And since then things had continued to deteriorate with increasing pace between them.</p><p>Sherlock’s shenanigans were essentially not particularly worrisome when put into context, mostly small jabs and pinches that stung but did not draw actual blood.</p><p> Yet when too many of those began to form a pattern Mycroft’s anger level just continued to rise until Sherlock finally broke the camels back by hacking into his brother’s e-mail one evening to take a look at something he wanted to get his hands on, or possibly just to show off in front of John Watson or simply because he was bored. </p><p>It could very well have been all of those three reasons, and in the end, the reason wasn’t important, it was the act itself that drove Mycroft over the edge.</p><p>Sherlock had been intolerably edgy and difficult over the past couple of months, and considering that difficult was already a part of the pre-programmed settings of his personality, it was saying quite a lot that he had managed to crank up the notch even further.</p><p>When realising that his brother had hacked into his e-mail and had done so despite several warnings about staying out of Mycroft’s business if not specifically invited to join, Mycroft didn’t even hesitate before he ordered a car to pick him up and take him to Baker Street as quickly as legally possible.</p><p>Sherlock was nonchalantly lounging in his chair when Mycroft entered the living room, alone apparently and probably bored out of his mind. </p><p>He had that feral look in his eyes that told Mycroft that he was seconds from shooting new holes into the living room wall or blowing something up with one of his mixtures in that home-made laboratory of his. </p><p>It was like watching mayhem seconds before it happened, and it only egged Mycroft on even further in his decision that something had to be done or his brother would become unbearable.  Being home alone had never been one of Sherlock’s strong suits and with nothing to occupy his mind, there was calamity around the corner just waiting to happen.</p><p>Normally Mycroft had no qualms about giving his little brother a proper dressing down in front of others, but it in this instance it was still better that John wasn’t around to bear witness to this. Mycroft could certainly be much crueller if there was no one there to see it and right now he was very motivated to just tear viciously into his insolent brat of a brother. </p><p>Starting off with a few chosen words hissed out in supressed anger, accentuated by the tapping of the tip of his umbrella against the floor to carry his point home, was soon followed by the rise of volume in his voice when Sherlock brazenly appeared to not care one bit what his brother was so worked up about. </p><p>Raised voices ended up transforming into a screaming match and finally ending with a hard slap across Sherlock’s cheek just as John decided to grace them with his presence, shopping bags in his hand, a shocked look on his face.</p><p>But instead of catching his wits about him and stop it there, Mycroft gave a forceful slap to the other cheek as well, a redness immediately appearing on the otherwise pale skin and then he bent down close to Sherlock’s face and hissed:</p><p>“Next time I see your fingers where they don’t belong, it won’t be <i>those</i> cheeks I’ll be slapping. Understood?”</p><p>Sherlock actually looked shell-shocked for a second, struggling to regain his composure, proud creature that he was. </p><p>He just stared up at Mycroft’s darkened face, clearly resisting the urge to put a hand over his heated cheek to calm it down, his eyes for a second brimming with pent-up emotion, then embarrassment on account of John’s presence and then finally he managed the desired result of turning his cold persona on and his eyes became emotionless and empty. Tightening his lips in a refusal to speak, Mycroft knew that no acknowledgement would be forthcoming, but he also knew that his point had been duly received and understood.</p><p>With that Mycroft straightened his back, turned on his heel and marched out of the flat, feeling John’s eyes boring into his back but not caring one little bit about it. </p><p>It had felt strangely satisfactory to punish his brother, even if Mycroft was a person who seldom retorted to violence himself if it could be avoided. </p><p>He had not engaged in any physical punishment of his brother since they had been children, and even then it had not been particularly forceful. </p><p>But years of teasing and mischief, later on followed by a pent-up secret sexual desire for his little brother that could occasionally drive him round the bend with frustration, combined with the difficult personality Sherlock cultivated to begin with, had evidently resulted in a lot of supressed anger issues and to have been allowed to just let out a little steam had been frankly cathartic. </p><p>And for a few blissful hours he revelled in that feeling, a punishment delivered for actions long due to be disciplined for.</p><p>But by evening, when he had left his office, had time to calm down and the feeling of elation had begun to subside he wondered if he had perhaps overreacted a little.</p><p>He had always been of the belief that cold calmness was to be preferred over white-hot rage, it was far more dignified. Losing control like that, even if it had been to someone like Sherlock who could rile up the most tranquil creature imaginable, had been a bit....well <i>ill-mannered</i> despite the fact that he had felt very satisfied at the time.  </p><p>But just like Sherlock was a proud man, so was Mycroft, and he simply refused to acknowledge that he might have overdone it a little bit with the slap, especially the second one that he had delivered despite knowing that John Watson had been there to see him humiliate his little brother by treating him like an insolent child. </p><p>At least he had not heard Mycroft’s hissed-out warning. </p><p>Probably not.</p><p>As anticipated Sherlock was not to be heard from for the following couple of days, and Mycroft had not expected anything else, no one could sulk like his little brother after all. </p><p>And it was not like they were constantly in contact anyway, and Mycroft had far more important things to concern himself with. Several upcoming elections, some of them rigged, others still under the pretence of democracy. Then there was that hushed-up military incident in South America from two weeks back, as well as their own elected leaders that needed constant guidance in running the country without doing too much damage while in charge. Politician were fickle creatures and easily replaced, but as long as they still had the power, it was like dealing with nitroglycerine – great caution was required and unexpected movements could lead to catastrophic consequences if not handled carefully.</p><p>And for a while that actually kept him occupied. </p><p>Work took almost every hour of the day, save those he spent trying to catch up on sleep. He went to diplomatic dinners and luncheons to get his sustenance and then some, he was surrounded by people in a different capacity almost constantly, moving from one meeting to the next, talking on his phone while being driven from one place to another, a constant flow of movement and not a second spared to think about what he had quite successfully managed to keep supressed.</p><p>The surveillance team never contacted him unless something unusual happened, so he was not reminded of his brother as long as he got no reports. And on that front it was just as quiet as from the man himself.</p><p>But as a whole month turned into two and the leaves on the tree outside his bedroom window turned yellow and then fell from the branches and things still remained quiet, he began to ponder the situation a little hesitantly, afraid that any acknowledgement on his part would manage to put a chink in the armour he had built for himself, while it still kept nagging at his attention as an unwelcome reminder of his actions. </p><p>Because there usually was a sign of some sort from his brother, if nothing else, the surveillance team would provide him with something. He <i>could</i> ask of course and he would be given a full report, but no, he would not stoop to that. </p><p>He could play the game of patience just as well as anyone, and he had done nothing wrong after all. </p><p>It had been Sherlock who had failed to hear his previous warnings, it was he who had broken the rules a few times too many. </p><p>That slap might have been a little over the top, but so what? It was <i>nothing</i> compared to the humiliation Sherlock constantly put <i>him</i> through. </p><p>And besides, not seeing Sherlock on a regular basis meant that it was easier for him to ignore those other feelings as well, those he kept safely hidden deep within himself, preventing them from ever being exposed, neither by Sherlock nor by anyone else for that matter. </p><p>People were always looking for ways to take him down, get the upper hand, have some sort of leverage over him, and he prided himself with always disappointing his enemies with providing nothing they could use. This particular secret could have been dynamite if ever brought out into the light, but luckily for him he knew it would never happen.</p><p> Most of all he had feared that Sherlock himself one day might figure it out. Sherlock was after all the master of deductions, so if there was anyone out there with the power to read Mycroft to a certain extent and conjure up what he wanted to be hidden, it was his little brother. </p><p>That was partly why he had been so upset when finding Sherlock invading every inch of privacy that he had, hacking into his e-mail account, pilfering id-cards and keys that led to classified locations, carelessly giving away state secrets to people he wanted to play with, just for the thrill of it. </p><p>Mycroft feared that one day Sherlock would stumble upon a clue that would lead to the reveal of the the biggest secret Mycroft had and how could he possibly survive an exposé like that?</p><p>No, the forceful reprimand had been necessary, he would not back down from that decision, and so he buried his guilt and the memory of Sherlock’s shell-shocked stare even deeper within himself, along with that hidden desire he also constantly felt regarding his brother. </p><p>No use letting things slide because of guilt. </p><p>Sherlock would stop sulking eventually. Probably when he needed something that only Mycroft could provide and Mycroft promised that he would grant it if he could, just to bury the hatchet between them. </p><p>But he would <i>not</i> be the one to make the first move. </p><p>And if he indulged a little too freely with sugary sweets to bury those feelings of guilt that occasionally managed to escape, resorting to what others might call comfort food but Mycroft himself never in his life would admit to, along with all those other things he also pretended didn’t exist, so what? </p><p>It wasn’t like anyone was there to see him eat himself out of his guilty conscience anyway. </p><p>The only person who would have noticed and made a comment about it was not there to do so.</p><p>One morning, as the temperature had dropped below zero and his assistant had brought him some tea to stave off the cold he had felt pinching his cheeks as he had exited the car, there was a knock on the door and Porter walked in, a spring in his step that usually wasn’t there and a smirk that made Mycroft sigh internally, because it was never good news when this imbecile was in a cheery mood.</p><p>Porter was the current press secretary and, like Mycroft a person who worked in the shadows but held most of the strings. </p><p>Nowhere near as intelligent as Mycroft and by many considered the slimiest man in cabinet, and yet with the ability to rise in rank despite putting as little effort as possible into doing it. He had recently been promoted to his position merely because the prime minister liked to surround himself with lackeys that knew how to humour him and consequently Porter made Mycroft’s job a hell of a lot more difficult by always going against basic human decency, stringing the prime minister along with him.</p><p>The usual pleasantries exchanged and Mycroft deigning to give his best shit-eating grin, Porter cut to the chase quickly enough.</p><p>“I have been seeing that younger brother of yours quite a bit lately. For the past couple of months in fact.”</p><p>Mycroft felt himself stiffen but outwardly showed no signs of it.</p><p>He merely raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.</p><p>“I know that you have acquired his help occasionally with positive results so I decided to make use of his talents myself and I must say, Holmes, your brother is quite the problem-solver. Not unlike yourself actually, but in a completely different capacity of course. More ....<i>hands-on</i> if you will.”</p><p>He pronounced the word hands-on as if Sherlock had preformed something astonishingly physical and Mycroft couldn’t help but let his brow furrow, because what the hell was going on here? </p><p>Sherlock assisting one of his colleagues, and doing it admirably as well? How did that come about?</p><p>“Did you reach out to him or...?” he asked, putting as much pretend calmness into his voice as he could muster.</p><p>Porter just continued to beam like he had literary won the highest prize in a game of lottery.</p><p>“Well, funny thing is it just sort of happened. Sheer luck really. I stumbled upon him and that assistant of his one afternoon and remembering the good result he had delivered to you in the past, I simply propositioned him to help me out. For a fee naturally. I would never take advantage of anyone’s generosity, and I have to say that he has been immensely helpful ever since. It’s been a true privilege watching him do his job. But since he is your brother, I still felt that it would be prudent to inform you about me stealing him from you occasionally.”</p><p>Trying his best to swallow the bile he felt rising in his throat by Porter’s clear provocation Mycroft could not help but feel taken aback by these news. </p><p>To make Sherlock take on any of the cases Mycroft occasionally tried to offer him was like trying to pull teeth, usually met with defiance, snark, often down-right refusal and always accompanied with well-aimed insults at the people Mycroft otherwise employed to perform these tasks.</p><p>But apparently Sherlock’s tone was different when it came to someone like Porter.....</p><p>Images came unbidden of just what those hands-on tasks had been all about, Porter’s smarmy smile lecherously directed at Mycroft’s dashing brother causing shivers to run down his spine as he thought of Sherlock who apparently was more forth-coming to this idiot than he was when Mycroft required his assistance. </p><p><i>Get a grip of yourself!</i> He told his inner insecure demons who threatened to come alive the longer he stayed in Porter’s presence, hearing him sing praises about Sherlock’s gifts like he had been presented with a bloody unicorn!</p><p>You didn't need to be a genius to realise that this was probably Sherlock’s way of retaliating for Mycroft's previous punishment by helping one of his colleagues in a way he would never help Mycroft, a way to stick it to him without even having to reach out in person. </p><p>It was devious in it’s perfection and despite seeing it for what it was Mycroft had to admit that it was effective. </p><p>He was thoroughly annoyed.</p><p>And to get even more annoyed was apparently in the cards when Porter, just as he was about the leave, announced that he was meeting Sherlock for luncheon later today at The Dorchester. </p><p>
  <i>Luncheon?</i>
</p><p>Sherlock hardly ate under normal circumstances, what kind of a ploy was this?</p><p>A cold grip around his heart suddenly appeared as a thought hit him with the same force as a sledgehammer doing its damnedest to knock him out.</p><p>Was there more going on here than just work?</p><p>Could it be that they were actually meeting up for a....<i>date</i>?</p><p>A quick sweep of Porter’s appearance would reveal a man older than Mycroft by five years, and shorter as well but decidedly trimmer. Very camp, openly homosexual and with a flair for the dramatic in his attire. Thinning hair though, but on the other hand, so was Mycroft's. </p><p>Would Sherlock really go for someone like that? </p><p>Porter was already half-way out the door when Mycroft croaked out for him to wait.</p><p>The other man lifted his eyebrows in question and Mycroft quickly gathered his thoughts so he would sound as aloof as he normally did, without raising suspicion.</p><p>“I have an appointment close to The Dorchester just before noon, would it be amenable if I joined you afterwards? It’s been a while since I last saw my brother.”</p><p>He could feel his heart actually hammering feverishly while neutralising his features, putting as much indifference into the question as he could possibly get away with. </p><p>This was the equivalent of him begging as far as he was concerned, but it was essential that no one else thought the same. He had put too much time and effort into cultivating the ice-cold persona he presented to his co-workers for it to start cracking at the first sign of weakness.</p><p>Porter had the good grace not to pull a face despite probably being reluctant for Mycroft to join them, and he nodded in agreement. </p><p>“See you then,” he said and closed the door behind him.</p><p>The Dorchester at twelve thirty was a crowded affair and yet sombre in its elegance. Mycroft had been there before of course but had not paid it much attention, as it was very similar to other high-end establishments of the same variety. Now he took in every detail carefully while trying to not focus too openly on his brother sitting with his back turned against him across from Porter as Mycroft crossed the room to joint hem.</p><p>To his embarrassment it felt like receiving a glass of cold water after having been parched for the past couple of months, seeing his little brother sitting there, looking just like he always did, elegantly dressed in a figure-fitting suit, curls in place, elegant fingers holding the stem of his glass while taking a sip. </p><p>Mycroft stubbornly fought the urge to allow the smile that wanted to break free and reveal how happy he actually felt simply by seeing him. Damn it if he was going to crack now, after all that time holding his stance in this matter. </p><p>But in a way he knew Sherlock had scored a point merely by Mycroft showing up in the first place.</p><p>It had to have been arranged for his sake, surely?</p><p>Sherlock didn’t do these things normally – going out to restaurants in the middle of the day, helping bureaucrats with their boring problems and doing it without complaining? <i>Eating lunch</i>, for God’s sake!</p><p>It was unheard of!</p><p>But another thing that also was rather unheard of was Sherlock meeting up with a client without his constant shadow of a flatmate one step behind, ready to compliment, rebuke and generally perform the role of an audience in the ongoing drama that was the life of Sherlock Holmes - consulting detective and over-all madman, . </p><p>And yet, John Watson was nowhere to be seen.</p><p>Which made Mycroft once again, with the sense of rising dread, wonder what kind of a scenario it was that he had actually walked into.</p><p>If this was some sort of date he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to sit it through, watching sleazy Porter do his outmost to woo his little brother, probably pawing all over him just because it was the kind of inelegance that could be expected from such a man. </p><p>Mycroft would either pulverize him right on the spot or simply walk away, concede defeat in whatever game Sherlock was playing, accepting that no one knew how to turn the knife quite like his brother when it came to paying it back for an offense previously received.</p><p> A slap or two was nothing compared to Sherlock actually ripping Mycroft’s heart out and stomping on it just to get his point across that Mycroft had humiliated him in front of his precious flatmate and needed to be taught a lesson. </p><p>Well, he was doing a mighty fine job teaching that lesson right now.</p><p>Mycroft greeted them in his usual polite manner, nodded in Sherlock’s direction for good measure before he seated himself across from him, next to Porter.</p><p>At least he wanted the view to be good if he was going to sit through a nasty experience.</p><p>He made his order to the waiter who had silently appeared next to him, then he leaned back in his seat and prepared himself for whatever was coming.</p><p>The next thirty minutes were excruciating, not only because Porter did his outmost to be spectacularly daft or because he constantly allowed himself to touch, leer or otherwise force his person upon Sherlock in a manner that made Mycroft’s stomach churn. </p><p>It wasn’t done crudely though; every instance could be explained away by accidentally bumping into Sherlock’s personal space and leering was practically a part of Porter’s hideous persona. </p><p>No, the really nauseating thing about the whole situation was that Sherlock, a person who normally strongly disliked being touched by other people, allowed for it to happen, returned a smile once in a while and just sat there looking like a very beautiful princess between two suitors, one of them too afraid to move so much as a muscle, while the other one was so straightforward that he would soon practically end up in Sherlock’s lap. </p><p>The background conversation was all about the work Sherlock had done for Porter lately, accolades being thrown his way under the pretence of praise just so an arm could be squeezed, a smile exchanged and so forth. </p><p>Mycroft had to look down at his plate occasionally to turn the offending image off, shove his food into his mouth and concentrate on chewing if he was going to get through this. </p><p>It was just like those sugary sweets he had indulged in for the past couple of months, when trying to smother the feeling of guilt that he had felt. He did it without a second though and almost like it was out of his own control. Just chewing and ignoring, swallowing down and ignoring even more, mechanically like a machine.</p><p>Nothing was said to confirm that this was anything other than a normal lunch, but every detail silently screamed in his face that this was arranged for his benefit on Sherlock’s part, nothing else would make any sense, and that Porter like the oblivious imbecile that he was, managed to play his role just the way Sherlock wanted him to.</p><p>The only flaw in this plan, one that Sherlock could not possibly know, was that the reason <i>why</i> this pained Mycroft so much wasn’t the same reason Sherlock believed it to be.</p><p>In Sherlock’s eyes, he was flaunting the fact that he was so willingly allowing one of his brother’s colleague’s to take advantage of his talents, helping out with problems that Mycroft in the past had been struggling to even get Sherlock to throw a glance at. </p><p>It was childish, it was pure retaliation for the sleight Sherlock felt he had unjustly been the victim of and it was nothing more than trying to hurt Mycroft’s professional pride.</p><p>In reality the agony this was causing Mycroft was on a much more personal level. </p><p>It was because the very idea of Sherlock being touched by <i>anyone</i>, especially someone like Porter, made him want to throw up, right across that beautiful white linen cloth on the table. It made him want to stick the tip of his umbrella right through the chest of this man and impale him. It made him want to yank Sherlock from where he was sitting and just get him the hell out of here.</p><p>The mere thought of Sherlock belonging to anyone but himself was unthinkable and yet his hands were tied right now, there was nothing for him to do about any of this beside watching it unfold in front of his eyes. </p><p>Because out there in the real world, feelings like his were not an acceptable option. </p><p>Sherlock would instantly recoil if he knew how Mycroft felt about him. His reputation would be ruined. Everything he feared losing would become a reality and it made him bury those feelings as deep down as he could possibly manage.</p><p>But right now, when faced with this little ploy his brother so unwittingly had arranged for him, it was a real struggle not to let any of the inner turmoil that he felt show.</p><p>So when his plate was finally empty and could no longer provide him the necessary diversion by offering food, he excused himself and headed straight for the men’s room just to get away from the offensive sight of Porter laughing about some inane joke no one but he thought was funny, while simultaneously squeezing Sherlock’s arm under the pretence of camaraderie while Mycroft fought the urge to stick his fork into that offending hand.</p><p>Better to flee instead. </p><p>Sticking a fork into a colleague’s hand during a lunch at The Dorchester was also not one of those things he wanted his reputation to be tarnished with, however tempting it might have sounded to hear Porter scream out in pain and release his grip of Sherlock’s arm.</p><p>Luckily for him, the men’s room was empty, and he leaned against the cool tiles of the wall while trying to regain control of himself, fighting the impulse to just flee but simultaneously not daring to leave Porter alone with his brother.</p><p>He felt painfully full and bursting from all the food he had ingested and the early signs of a headache was making themselves known as well, so he staggered over to the water basin to splash some cold water on his face to calm himself down.</p><p>Just as he was bent over the tap, breathing heavily while trying to focus on regaining control, he could hear footsteps coming up from behind him and he froze for a second as the presence of another person made itself known next to him.</p><p>Before he had the chance to rise from his bent position, the other man bent down instead and the hot puff of air from his breath sent a shiver down Mycroft’s spine as a whisper was made into his ear:</p><p>“I believe I was promised a slap on my cheeks if I was ever to touch one of your things again. I’m still waiting for that promise to be fulfilled.”</p><p>With a jerk Mycroft whipped his head to face the intruder, staring straight into his little brother’s mirthful smirk.</p><p>As inelegantly as it must have looked, Mycroft couldn’t help but simply let his mouth fall open in confusion.</p><p>Because....<i>what</i>?</p><p>Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a teasing manner but said nothing, merely waited while Mycroft’s inner turmoil was showing no sign of calming down at all.</p><p>Finally Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently and sighed.</p><p>“Well? What are you waiting for? I managed to drag a bloody colleague of yours all the way here to flaunt him in your face. If that doesn’t constitute as me getting my fingers where they don’t belong, I don’t know what will.”</p><p>“But....” To his embarrassment Mycroft simply couldn’t manage to get more words out of his mouth than that.</p><p>“Oh, stop it, Mycroft. Isn’t this what you wanted after all?”</p><p>Mycroft shook his head, still reeling.</p><p>“What do you mean....?” he finally managed.</p><p>Sherlock scoffed at his inability to articulate properly.</p><p>“Oh, come on. Don’t be as obtuse as that sorry excuse of a man sitting out there waiting for us to return. This is what you wanted after all, isn’t it? Me at your mercy, you in the role of punisher. I saw how much you enjoyed the last time.”</p><p>Mycroft couldn’t believe what he was hearing. </p><p>What kind of a game was this? How many levels of torture could his brother possibly put him through? </p><p>He felt actual dread beginning to grip his insides now.</p><p>Had Sherlock finally figured it out? Mycroft’s dirty little secret?</p><p>Sherlock snorted as a reply to that.</p><p>“Oh, please. Your smugness after giving me those slaps could not have been more telling. You were <i>clearly</i> enjoying it.”</p><p>Sherlock leaned closer and Mycroft could feel himself tense for what he assumed must be the final death blow delivered to his deeply hidden secret as it was about to be exposed.</p><p>“And if we’re being honest here, <i>brother dear</i>,” Sherlock continued, “I enjoyed it quite a lot as well. You have to work on your handiwork a little, that second deliverance was a bit sloppy, but overall, a job well-done. "</p><p>His eyes narrowed like a cat's, zooming in on a trapped mouse in a corner. Mycroft could actually feel sweat threatening to break out any second now.</p><p>"<i>Sooo</i>..." Sherlock said.</p><p>He was so close now that Mycroft could feel his hairs stand up, tingling from the intimacy of his brother's presence. As Sherlock spoke his voice had lowered itself to a seductive purr.</p><p>“I believe I was promised a punishment on my <i>other</i> cheeks if I were to touch one of your belongings again. I assume touching a colleague of yours constitutes as breaching those rules.”</p><p>The glimmer in his eyes, the silkiness of his voice and considering how close he was standing, almost crowding Mycroft, made it difficult to focus and regain control of the situation. He was definitely sweating now.</p><p>But if there was one thing Mycroft had learnt over the years working as a puppet master in the vast halls of power, corruption and world dominance, it was how to manage bouncing back when the carpet had literary been swept from under your feet.</p><p>So while his inner logic screamed at him from the top of its lungs to stop this, to step back and walk away, pretend that this conversation had never happened, another part of him, that true core of his personality that still managed to make an appearance once in a while, made him close the distance even further between him and his little brother, reach out one of his hands and grab Sherlock’s collar between his fingers in a firm grip before he dragged him towards one of the empty stalls in the corner.</p><p>He knew after all when an irresistible offer was staring his straight in the eye and he had never been known to decline a wanted gift presented to him, wrapped up and ready for him to claim. </p><p>When Porter came bumbling into the men’s room ten minutes later, tired of waiting for his lunch companions to return, confused over what the hold-up was all about, he saw neither of the brothers in there. </p><p>What he did hear though was a strange sound coming from one of the stalls in the furthest corner of the room, and then the very familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes ordering someone to give it to him harder, accompanied be the smacking echo of skin connecting with skin forcefully. </p><p>This was instantly followed by a cry of pure pleasure so filthy that it made Porter’s cheeks turn red and him spinning on his heels to stumble out of there, frantically wondering what Mycroft would think if he knew that his little brother was having it off with someone in the men’s room at The Dorchester.</p><p>Because Porter always had been a bit of an an imbecile after all.</p>
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